


Prism

by ahegaokin



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Jealous!Spock, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9432200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahegaokin/pseuds/ahegaokin
Summary: A collection of short, Jim-centric drabbles, all of them based around colors.





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

> HI I'M OBSESSED WITH JIM KIRK I HOPE IT SHOWS!! also enjoy this i've got a bunch of short chapters written, this'll update every sunday i think!!

If James Kirk isn’t twitching, bouncing, rocking, tapping, talking, or putting something in his damned mouth, he’s dead—that’s what Bones used to say when they were both in the Academy, sharing a room while Jim slowly drove him mad with his incessant  _ energy _ . Jim remaining alive after those three years is a testament to Bones’ patience and nothing else. Anyone else planetside would've obliterated him after finding all of the PADD styluses chewed beyond recognition, or after dealing with his sudden manic episodes that often struck in the absolute dead of night. 

Bones is many things, especially patient. 

Being on the Enterprise gives Jim even more outlets in which to channel himself, which should be a good thing. It quickly becomes a problem once he starts doing his own job and everyone else’s just to be sure that they're all getting done right. He has be reminded rather forcefully that he's the Captain, not a xenobotanist, or an engine specialist, or part of the repair crew, or (once, and he'd never tried it again) a doctor. 

Somehow, despite all there is to do, he never seems to get  _ tired _ of any of it, or in general for that matter.  

When he’s finally wrangled down into a tentative, stable schedule about three weeks into the ship’s five year journey, it begins to wear on him. He has to sit in the captain’s chair for  _ hours _ —and as much as he loves the damn thing (he does, really) it’s entirely too still for his busy body and mind. 

He takes to snapping his fingers to pass the time, patting his palm against his thigh, humming, reading, biting his nails, swiveling in frustrating, endless half circles for hours and hours. 

The crew is beside themselves. 

His favorite method of trying to entertain himself is eating—especially when he’s stuck in a double shift. He brings an assortments of candies to roll around in his mouth as he hums, flipping through his datapad. 

Jim’s favorite flavor is cherry. 

He’s enjoying a lollipop, shifting the thing from cheek to cheek, bouncing his leg, when Spock decides to chime in with, “Food on the bridge is against regulation number—” 

“Thank you, Mr. Spock,” he responds a bit forcefully, turning his chair to face his First Officer’s console.“When I ask you’ll be the first to know.”

He watches those dark eyes move from the paper stick poking from between his stained lips and tongue, to his eyes. 

Huh. 

His mood sours slowly. He’s  _ still _ waiting for that epic friendship to bloom like Ambassador Spock said it would. It’s been almost a  _ month _ and nothing but snappish, passive-aggressive comments and dismissals—and Jim admits to himself, sometimes he can be a total ass, but he doesn’t deserve the cold shoulder like this.  

He pops the candy from his mouth and sighs. 


	2. Orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cheers!

Kavier is an out of the way Class M planet rich in calcium veins, so it’s not surprising it’s fallen onto the Federations radar. ‘Making friends’ with them, as Jim as dubbed all diplomatic interactions, should require little to no effort. Starfleet has  _ much  _ to offer in terms of protection and in exchange for setting up a modest mining colony, everyone has the potential to benefit, but… 

Jim has a way of complicating things.

The Kavurts surround a square stage from all sides, hooting and jibbering and dragging their claws against the stone. Upon the decorated space there are spears and flowers and blood and Jim, who wrestles tooth and nail with with a native, flipping it onto his back. The others of its kind cheer wildly, throwing offerings to the writhing bodies while Spock watches, helpless. 

He’s in no place to judge their culture, what with both halves of his heritage coming from a place of former savagery, but having to watch his captain engage in such unnecessary violence… 

(He balls his sweaty hands behind his back as Jim is wrenched forward by his shirt. He resolves to step in if any injury becomes life-threatening—his captain’s fragile, impulsively gambled life does come before  _ any  _ customs.) 

Jim fights dirty, going for a vicious kick between his opponent's legs. He swivels to Spock, pink lips parted and face flushed when he realizes Kavurt testicles  _ aren't between their legs.  _

He ducks away from a punch that surely would have incapacitated him, and lands an upper-cut so forceful everyone hears teeth clack together. Orange blood is drawn in a garish arch, spilling from the native’s mouth in a wet glob of spit. 

The crowd’s voices rise in unison, triumph, and despair. 

The ambassador—a small, impish Kavurt that escorted them after they beamed down—takes the stage with his hands held high over his head. 

“Our victor!” he shouts, raising Jim’s bruised fist up. The round room is shaking with thunderous applause. Spock hears none of it as he hurries forward to help Jim step down, brows drawing together in confusion at his captain’s too-wide smile. Their skin touching, Spock feels the joy, the pride, the throbbing undercurrent of fierce  _ arousal _ — 

“Told you to have a little faith, Commander,” he says baring his teeth and laughing. He looks positively feral. 

“Faith is highly illogical, Captain. However, somehow, you’ve managed to defy the odds” The  _ yet again _ goes unspoken. He tries not to sound irritated. It isn't as if he wanted Kirk to  _ perish.  _

No, a fine throttling to knock him from his proverbial high horse would have been more than acceptable. 

“Stick around for the rest of the five years and you’ll find that I do that pretty regularly.” His laugh ends in a pained wheeze, so Spock requests an immediate beam-up as Jim leans against him. 


	3. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I PUSHED IT TO SATURDAY, i really like this fic and i'm almost done!!

The silence in the medbay is  _ agonizing _ . The transporter room had been  _ alive  _ with noise—an audience (the surprised crew on duty), the noises of disgust (again, those poor ensigns), the wet sounds of bruises being sucked into his skin—and his pollen-addled brain had loved it. Constant stimulation had been the key, whether it had been auditory or visual or…physical. Sexual. 

He doesn’t remember who pulled him away from the writhing mass of bodies, but whoever did had brought him straight to an isolation chamber under his CMO’s watchful eye. They had plopped him inside (possibly with a bit of surly Southern grit) and told him to wait his ass there until he could keep it in his pants. 

It’d taken hours for the euphoric sensitivity of his skin to fade, and even longer for his blood pressure to drop to McCoy-approved levels, and for his senses to return. 

Jim swings his legs idly as he waits, thinking (focusing, hyperfocusing,  _ hyper _ -hyperfocusing) on the memory of a hot tongue running across his skin, hands grabbing at his forearms, nails digging into his thighs. He remembers it all with perfect, painful clarity. 

He ruffles the remaining fine yellow powder from his mussed hair and his ripped clothes. The last thing he remembers (that’s not sex related) is a flower...sneezing on him. Honest to god  _ sneezing _ , practically covering him in sweet-smelling dust. 

And he’d  _ stared _ at it. And Spock, along with the rest of the landing party, had stared at him. 

And then… 

“You’re lucky you didn’t have an allergic reaction,” Bones mutters more to himself, appearing from his office. Jim smiles as if to say  _ look, I’m alright!  _ And he really is, save for a bit sore from the, uh, frottage and such. 

Bones doesn’t buy it. 

He presses a hypo against Jim’s arm, softly, like an apology, trying to meet his eyes.

“Just in case you get the sniffles later. You're lucky you weren't allergic to the damn thing...” 

Jim tries not to think about anything, not Spock, not his sharp teeth—do people know how sharp Vulcan’s keep their teeth?—and the bite marks he’d left trailing down from Jim’s neck to his stomach. Are Vulcan’s always that rough? Does he fuck Uhura that way? Frantic and desperate and  _ hard _ — 

The biobed gives away his rising heart rate like a damned traitor.     

“Jesus, Jim, what’s wrong with you now?” 

“Nothing! I’m going stir-crazy in here. You’ve had me locked up for hours.” 

McCoy is unreadable. He's known and loved Jim long enough to know that he's lying through his gorgeous teeth.

“Discharge me already,” he whines pitifully, crinkling his gown, pushing his bottom lip out in what’s probably the most childish pout Bones has ever seen. And he has a  _ daughter _ . He has to roll his eyes. 

If Jim thinks he can avoid this conversation he's got another thing coming. 

“...If he did anything to hurt you I’ll wring his skinny green neck, you know that, don’t you?”

“Bones—”

“I mean it. Regulations be damned if he—” 

“Bones!”

Jim’s voice cracks in a way neither of them have heard before, and it's enough to make McCoy pause before he can properly build up steam. If it were anyone else, he’d swear that's the voice of someone on the verge of crying. 

He meets his best friend’s eyes curiously, almost in disbelief. 

“Please,” Jim says after a shuddering breath. “Just let me go.” 

Bones relents, something heavy and uncomfortable taking residence in his chest. “...Get outta here, Jimmy.”  


	4. Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all !! thanks for the kudos you've left, i really appreciate it! i had a snow day today so i figured i'd fuck up my posting schedule because god. this was like my favorite chapter that i've written so far, i hope you can tell and enjoy it!! there are three chapters after this and the last one is definitely porn ! 
> 
> stay warm!

 

“They are meant to be eaten with a ladle, Captain,” Spock explains with an undeniable edge to his voice. Jim’s response is to defiantly pick up the saccharine, syrupy fruit with his fingers, placing it on his curling pink tongue and licking off the excess with a little noise, all while dozens and dozens of dark eyes watch him.

The small fruits he’s devouring are fermented in clay jars until they’re laden with sweetness and tart with alcohol, the segments soft and chewy. Jim has come to love them.

Everyone has come to love watching him eat.

Spock considers the merit in catching his pretty bowed lips in a savage kiss while he licks the sweetness out...but decides against it. That would be a very improper way to behave in front so many important Vulcans christening such a special occasion. Jim doesn’t see the hungry stares the same way Spock does—can’t see the hunger simmering behind the blank, dark eyes, and that makes something about it all the more _painful_.

The New Vulcan heat presses inside of the structure with its high ceiling, adding to the flush rising to Jim’s cheeks.

“Ethanol is the component that gets humans drunk, not theobromine,” he explains to the overly captivated audience, licking his fingers clean. “My FO taught me that.”

He’d had the privilege of seeing Spock inebriated only _once_ —and as one as obnoxious as Jim _obviously_ does _,_ he refuses to let him live the incident down. As much as Spock tries to avoid his eyes, Jim still manages a sly wink as he scoops up a finger-full of syrup and eats it off.

Not even the comfort of Jim’s ignorance can bring Spock pleasure in the face of this _obscenity_.

A few heads at the table chime in with a, “Fascinating.”

( _Fascinating indeed_ , he thinks bitterly.)

His laughter is alien amongst the chatter, odd and bright and Spock _wants_ so desperately, only for a moment. _Jim is an interesting man_ , Spock rationalizes, _but not that interesting_ —not so much so that the other Vulcans crowd him when they finish with the ceremonial meal, seemingly enamored with his wild tales.

“Surely you could not have made such a dangerous decision,” a botanist named T’Rin says, leaning forward so her dark hair falls forward. Jim grins, wetting his lips, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

“Surely I did. I drove the thing right off a cliff—” He pauses, preformative. They _all_ seem to lean forward minutely, crowding his space.  Jim loves the attention, and for many reasons Spock cannot blame him.

...Spock can _attempt_ not to blame him.

Spock can blame him silently, illogically.

They touch Jim in a very un-Vulcan like manner, tracing the soft curve of his ears (“How endearing.” “Why _thank_ you!”), touching the whorls on his fingertips (“That tickles,” his Captain says, pressing unknowing, innocent kisses against complete strangers. _He does not know know_ , Spock thinks to himself, _he could not possibly know_ , but that doesn't make it any less tortuous), praising him as the most _fascinating_ and _interesting_ and _captivating—_

Spock is physically relieved when Jim begins to claim fatigue, bidding the rest of the party a good evening. It’s the perfect excuse to retire the Captain to their traditionally shared room, tugging him as he waves happily to the New Vulcan administrators.

“They were nice,” he mumbles, a tad bit past buzzed. “Really nice—sort of touchy though. I figured they’d be a little stiff, like you.”

He’s teasing, and Spock endeavors to examine the gnarled, angry feeling in his gut during his designated meditation time, but for the time being he’s more than content to show Jim to his bed for the night.

“Sleep well, Captain.”

“Jim,” he corrects gently. He's been doing that, oddly enough, insisting that they be more friendly to one another off-duty. “And thanks for today. I had a lot of fun.”

His smile is lazy and warm, slow-spreading like syrup, sweet and flushed a kissable pink, and more genuine than anything any of those other Vulcans will _ever_ have.

He covets it, committing it to his perfect memory as he bids Jim goodnight.


	5. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCKED up the posting schedule but yknow? the story's pretty much done !! now i just have to set a timer or something to keep updates going once a week!! this chapter is shorter, but please let me know how u liked it n leave a kudo!! it helps mend my fragile ego

The stillness of beta shift is interrupted with, “Unidentified object on the scanners, Captain.” 

“Bring it up on the viewport, Sulu.” 

There’s a beat of held breath. 

The Klingon warbird is sleek and black, nearly blending in with the space around it, the bridge is shocked clean of sound—even the ambient beeps and whirrs seem to quiet in surprise. Jim’s eyes go wide, before cooling with a sharpness, like flint. 

Spock knows that look. It means lots of paperwork and ass-kissing (for the inevitably broken rules). It means Jim will be—against all mathematical odds—insufferably  _ right  _ about everything he chooses to do. 

He remembers seeing it when Jim was just a cadet, seated proudly in the simulation chair with his blazing red uniform, staring up as he ate an apple in big, wet bites—the picture of arrogance. Something about the sureness of him, the defiant tilt of his chin and the insistence that he could cheat the test, the very _ world _ , and come out the victor every time—Spock had known then and there that Jim would be a Starfleet captain not to be trifled with.

He has yet to be proven wrong. 

Under the bridge lights Jim looks absolute in his power, square and sturdy like a proper captain, devoid of his childish fighting. His brain works simultaneously as he barks orders to the crew. 

He glances to Spock and something passes between them. Something like trust, maybe, and the barest hint of a smile in those glittering eyes. 

The ship slinks through the darkness of the like a snake, deliberate in its motions towards the Enterprise. It approaches with the promise of conflict, of death, of chaos. 

Spock realizes another thing in the same powerful way he did when his captain was just a cadet. He knows suddenly, with unshakeable certainty, that nothing in the universe could ensure his safety and the safety of the crew more than that look. 


	6. Indigo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! second to last chapter!! the final one is done too so expect it in a week or five days lol!! kudos much appreciated

Vulcan calligraphy is possibly one of the galaxy’s most complex and beautiful writing Jim’s ever had the pleasure of seeing. Spocks fingers look as if they have every business creating something so delicate and precise. The way he moves the scribe, tipped with authentic liquid ink, it’s mesmerizing, visual poetry, and the earthly smell of the paper along with the meditation candles lull Jim into an odd peace.

He’s sure that usually no off-worlder would ever have the casual privilege of seeing something like this, but, oddly enough, Spock doesn’t consider him an _other_. They’ve always been a part of the Enterprise, a team, the two of them together.

It makes him feel warm and giddy, like he’s having some kind of... _crush_. He’s too old for that, isn’t he?

The fire throws shadows into the angles on Spock’s face. He looks beautiful when he concentrates...

“It’s amazing,” Jim murmurs over the scratch of the scribe on thick paper. He’s lying languidly against Spock's side, half-naked because of the heat, definitely breaching personal space, but blessedly still so as not to disturb the delicate work.

Curiosity gets the best of Jim when he asks, “What does it say? I can only translate some of it.”

He tils his head curiously. Spock has found that he, along with many, many other humans, is able to keep up a conversation with himself, no input needed.

“This one is...dear one mine. My darling? Ah, how does that translate again? Thee or thine?” He mumbles to himself for a moment, pinching and chewing at his bottom lip with the slightest furrow between his brows.

“It’s a _love_ poem,” he realizes with a touch of pink to his ears. “You’re writing a love poem?”

The tender shock on his face transforms too quickly for Spock to respond. His lips pull into a desirous little smirk.

“You wrote _me_ a love poem?” he asks in the most smug, self-satisfied voice Jim Kirk can muster. It’s all Spock can do not to roll his eyes.

“I merely copied a text that I remember quite fondly from my childhood.”

“Ah! That’s a non-answer and you know it. You did it for me, didn’t you?”

“Indeed.”

The wet, loud kiss he presses against Spock’s shoulder makes his skin stand on end. He laughs, and Spock quietly catalogues the way his breath catches. “I love it. I have to sit and translate it properly sometime. Don’t tell me anything—I like the challenge.”

“I am well aware.”

Jim is sprawled all over him now, plucking the thick scroll from the ankle-high table, his eyes scanning each stroke of ink greedily.

“ _That’s_ definitely ‘thine’. I think. I dunno how it fits grammatically.” He turns his head, resting against Spock’s side. “This is incredible cheesy, you know. Maybe even romantic.”

“As if you would be satisfied with anything else, Jim.”


	7. Violet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she's finished.... and nearly a month old!! yay!!! here's porn to celebrate. thanks so much for all the kudos and comments and help!

Jim has turned whittling away at Spock’s self-control into an art form. In the low light (“Twenty percent,” he’d moaned as Spock mouthed at his delicate neck where his pulse fluttered and jumped), he wets his lips, touching himself with fervor. 

When Spock  _ finally,  _ blessedly splits him open on his fingers, patiently preparing him of what's to come, he groans, “ _ All yours _ —”, because he knows how it makes Spock clench his jaw, makes the alien tendons in his neck strain for a moment before releasing—a beautiful lapse in control. 

All Jim’s fault. 

He digs his heel into Spock’s collar, rolling his hips so slowly, so sensually, clenching around Spock until he gets what he wants, those same long, pale fingers digging into his thigh. His cock jumps against his stomach, a deeper flush spreading down his chest. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” he hisses in earnest. It takes all Spock has not to bite into his skin,  _ marking _ him. Jim must feel the heady wave of possessiveness wash over him, because he breaks out into rumbling laughter that makes his eyes crinkle. 

Spock fucks him like a punishment after that, starting with one hard thrust that punches the air from him. The rest that follow make him  _ squeal _ and grab at the sheets. He moans something wild and incoherent as he’s left breathless, the bed banging against the bulkhead.  

“God,  _ yes _ —” 

“How filthy,” Spock notes evenly, like he’s not figuratively balls-deep (because Vulcan testicles aren’t between their legs, Jim notes that seems to happen a lot with aliens). Jim has to wonder how he can keep his voice so level as his own begins to rise, babbling obscene promises as his orgasm rushes over him. 

When oval-shaped marks on his arms and legs bloom into purpled bruises, neither of them are surprised. Jim touches them lovingly, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth in a manner Spock can only describe as gratitude. 


End file.
